


A Field of Flowers

by fortheloveoflestrade



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Oops, i like e.e. cummings way too much, this is my crack ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:07:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveoflestrade/pseuds/fortheloveoflestrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene and John grow up together in the country.</p><p>Poetry-based.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tumbling-hair

Tumbling-hair  
picker of buttercups  
violets  
dandelions  
And the big bullying daisies  
through the field wonderful  
with eyes a little sorry  
Another comes  
also picking flowers

\--e.e. cummings

 

A breeze blows over the wide, open plain, throwing forward the mass of dark curls around her head and bending back the heads of her collection of flowers clutched tightly in her round fingers.

She sees a purple flower that makes her eyes widen, and giggles as she tugs it free from the nourishment of the soft ground. More for her bouquet to bring to Mummy.

She runs, the colourful bunch held out carefully in front of her.

Her hands are full, so she wanders back to the fence which separates her backyard from the field of tempting treasures—she’s forgotten all about her mother telling her to stay inside the fence, the draw of the neighboring land too strong for the mere child of four—and places her spoils in a grassy section just beside one of the many wooden posts.

Then her chubby little legs are off again, back to her task of exploring and gathering. She skips through the tall, yellow grass, watching her favorite shoes jumping below her.

She looks up just in time to stop from hitting him—the little boy. He is her height, with cropped ash-blond hair, but maybe a year or two older. His jumper is striped and she decides she likes it.

His eyes are curious, but nervous, too, and almost apologetic. She does not recognize this, thinking he looks sad to have almost been run into.

“Oops,” she whispers, while his hands bunch together behind his back—a nervous habit of his.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmurs.

She tilts her head and smiles at him. “You do not scare me,” she states.

His worry fades and he smiles back at her. “Okay.”

“Want to pick flowers?” she asks her new friend.

“Yes,” he grins.

She giggles and sprints away from him, meaning for him to follow.

He does, but not nearly as fast as she.

“Faster!” she shouts, full of adolescent glee.

They run and they play, they pick flowers, and run some more while holding hands and with the grass running against their legs.

“Irene!” her mother calls from a distance beyond the fence. “Irene, where are you?”

“That’s my mummy,” she says. “I have to go home.”

The boy takes her hand and squeezes. “Come and play tomorrow?”

She smiles. “Yes.”

She slides under the fence and goes to her hiding place, gathering her collection in her arms and careful not to drop or crush any of her prizes.

“My name’s Irene,” she calls back. “What’s yours?”

“John,” the boy says. “John Watson.”

She smiles. Irene likes his name. “See you tomorrow, John Watson.”


	2. is there a flower(whom

is there a flower(whom  
i meet anywhere  
able to be and seem  
so quite softly as your hair

what bird has perfect fear  
(of suddenly me)like these  
first deepest rare  
quite who are your eyes

(shall any dream  
come a more millionth mile  
shyly to its doom  
than you will smile)

\--e.e. cummings

 

He finds her in the field, as he always does. She’s sitting with her back leaned up against the fence, her raven hair carefully braided at the nape of her neck, and she’s reading a book.

She doesn’t look up as he approaches.

“Hello, John,” she says, her voice honey and lavender.

He drops down in front of her, crossing his legs before him. “Irene,” he nods.

She continues reading, and he finds he doesn’t mind. Normally, they play, running and chasing and flower picking until one of them is called home. Today, he finds her presence is enough to make contentment settle in his chest.

“What are you reading?” he asks softly, afraid of disturbing her.

She closes the book, keeping her index finger inside to hold her page. She’s only seven, but she radiates beauty. “Poetry. Would you like me to read some?”

The corner of his mouth tugs up. “Okay,” he murmurs. He brings up his knees and wraps his arms around them, setting his chin between his kneecaps. He stares at her unabashedly.

She smiles, her eyes meeting his for a single moment before dropping back down to the page. “Is there a flower…”


	3. trees

trees  
were in(give  
give)bud when to me  
you  
made for by love  
love said did  
o no yes

earth was in  
(live  
live)spring  
with all beautiful  
things when to  
me  
you gave gave darling

birds are  
in(trees are in)  
song  
when to me you  
leap and i'm born we  
‘re sunlight of  
Oneness

\--e.e. cummings

 

When John arrives at the field, their field, Irene is not there.

This is a first. Irene is always the first to arrive at their little meetings. He even came a half hour earlier one day, and she was there, reading from one of her books.

He briefly entertained ideas of her being able to read his mind, or that she spent every free moment in the field, even when he wasn’t around.

He comes upon the fence that separates her property from the open space in which he stands. He can see her house, and it looks eerily empty.

He grips the small box carefully wrapped in is hands a little tighter, but not too tight. He spent twenty minutes wrapping her gift, and even asked his sister for help with the bow.

Today is Irene’s sixteenth birthday. He’s nearly eighteen, yet can only boast a half inch of height more than her.

They have been meeting in this field almost every day for the past eleven years, and John thinks he’s in love with Irene. He’s never been in love before, but he’s pretty sure this is it.

John eventually sits against the fence, left to wait for her, the present perched in his lap.

 

The Adlers arrives home late into the evening. Irene’s parents took her to the city for her birthday.

As she climbs out of the family car, she notices a dark shape in the distance, just beyond the fence.

She slips away to investigate.

As quietly as she can manage, she approaches to find the shape is the body of a boy on the verge of being a man.

 _John_ , she thinks to herself, _I’m so sorry. I forgot._

His eyes are closed, but she knows better than to think him asleep. John has the keen senses of a soldier—he needs them, seeing as he’s going to be one in a few short months.

Irene hops the fence and drops to her knees in front of him, careful not to get dirt on her new dress.

His eyes open slowly, a smile ready for her.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs.

“S’okay,” he whispers. His voice sounds like he had actually been sleeping. “Happy birthday.”

She smiles. That smile she saves just for special moments, though John seems to see it more than anyone else.

Still firmly in his hand is her present, and he lifts it in her direction. “For you.”

Her eyes strain to see it in the night, but he can see them fill with anticipation.

She is as careful unwrapping as he was wrapping the box, though she makes much quicker work of it.

Beneath the bow and perfectly creased paper, and within the velvet box is a necklace.

It is a simple silver chain, and probably costs less than any other piece of jewelry she owns, but she loves it more than anything. The small charm is a flower, surprisingly intricate.

She lifts it curiously out of its place, nestled in the soft satin lining. “Oh, John,” she breathes, “it’s beautiful.”

“It’s not as nice as your other things, I know, but…”

“No,” she interrupts. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

His cheeks warm and he’s grateful for the partial cover of oncoming night.

“Help me put it on?” she asks, holding it out to him.

He takes it carefully, and undoes the clasp. She turns lifts her hair, half up in a decorated hair clip that her grandmother left her in her will.

He settles it in place and fastens it.

Irene turns back and lifts a hand to the necklace. They lock eyes.

Now, he thinks. Tell her now.

“Irene, I…”

She looks at him, waiting. “What?”

“I…should probably get home. It’s getting late.”

Her eyes drop. “Yes, it is.”

He stands first and then offers her his hand. She takes it and he lifts her, and she settles against him. “Thank you, again,” she whispers, wrapping her arms around him.

He returns the embrace. 

“John, how long have we known each other?’ she asks, her breath warm against his neck and shoulder.

“Since we were kids,” he answers.

“And have you ever been able to hide anything from me?”

He pulls back to look at her, but his hands stay firm at her waist. “No, I suppose not.”

She’s smiling, like she was before, but with something else in her eyes. Something deeper.

“Remember me when you leave, alright?” she whispers.

He tilts his head. “I could never forget you.”

“Good.” And then her lips press softly against his.

It’s only for a moment, but it’s enough. He knows that it’s not just him. This is love, he thinks.

“I’ll come back for you,” he adds.

She smiles, and kisses him one last time before slipping away from him.

As she’s walking away, she calls back, “You’d better.”


End file.
